Bittersweet
by Marla Fair
Summary: It has been one year since Joe Cartwright lost his beloved brother, Hoss. Needing to escape his own demons, Joe heads out to visit to Carrie Pickett. He never makes it. Instead, badly injured, Joe works his way toward a plume of smoke rising in the distance. Little does he suspect what he finds at the end of his journey will change his life forever.
1. Chapter 1

ONE

Just...a...little...farther.

He'd seen smoke in the distance. That meant there was someone other than him on this Godforsaken hill. Someone who could help him.

Someone who could save his life.

But he had to get there first.

Face-down on the forest floor wasn't a good way to start.

Lift your arm. Use _it_ to lift your body. Do it! Do it _now_ before you freeze to death!

Snow. Who would have believed it? It was early autumn and there was an inch of snow on the ground. It covered the brown leaves and nettles that were his makeshift bed like a gossamer blanket.

Joe Cartwright blinked his eyes and tried to focus on the landscape around him. If he could figure out where he was, he might be able to figure out whose cabin was ahead of him. Trouble was, the blow to the head he had taken in the fall had just about blinded him. All he could make out were dim shapes and just about all of them were white.

Joe rested his head on his good arm and turned to look behind him. There was one spot that wasn't white. His horse's carcass lay back there at the base of the ravine, a black and red blot on the pristine fall of snow. Thank God he'd left Cochise at home! Though if he'd been riding Cochise, he probably wouldn't have gone over the edge and tumbled down the side of the ravine to land in the half-frozen river at the bottom. The horse had scrambled out of the water, giving no thought to the fact that his foot was still caught in the stirrup and he'd be dragged along. She fell about a dozen feet on the other side of the river, mortally wounded. The cold, icy water had ruined his rifle. He'd had the wherewithal to grab his pistol and hold it over his head as he hit the surface. It made it out with him, though his belt and extra bullets were lost to the fast-running current.

He had two bullets left after putting the skittish animal out of its misery.

Joe winced as he shifted and grunted out a laugh. He _should_ have put the horse out of its misery the minute he laid eyes on it in the farmer's stable – and maybe the farmer along with it. The man had cheated him, plain and simple. His own horse had come up lame and he'd taken what he could get, so hell-bent was he on reaching Carrie Pickett's cabin in the Piney Woods. Carrie had a way of workin' him out of a funk and he'd been in one when he set out from the Ponderosa. He often headed her way when he needed to think.

Or to escape.

It was strange. Both he and Pa were hurtin'. You'd think they would have taken solace in each other's presence, but instead – when they _were_ together – they were both all _too_ aware of the one who was missing. Not brother Adam. He'd said his goodbye years before.

Hoss. It was Hoss who was missin'.

Hoss who had died a year ago to the day.

Joe sucked in air and readied himself to rise. It wasn't doin' him any good layin' here in the snow gettin' all maudlin. If he didn't get his ass up and out of the white stuff, Pa was gonna have another reason to regret this day.

Another reason.

Like the _first_ wasn't enough.

Like he hadn't screwed up again.

The wind was up and it froze the tears on his cheeks as Joe lifted his head and blinked. Somewhere between those last two sentences he must have passed out. The sun was setting, casting long fingers of fiery pink and gold over a rolling land gone silver-blue. He'd come here to do a little work for Carrie and to find solace, not to die. If he didn't get to shelter before night fell, that was just what he was going to do.

Die.

Once again, Joe pressed his right hand against the frozen earth and attempted to rise. Pain shot through his left side and blasted out of his skull as he did. His leg was broken just below the knee and he was fairly certain the ribs on that side were too. At first he'd slid down the hillside, but then that damned horse had passed him by, crushing his left side and pulling on the leg still caught in the stirrup. That's when it snapped. He'd passed out and the first thing he'd known, he'd found himself lyin' on the far side of the river, gasping for air. It took just about everything that was in him to get his foot out of the tangle it was in. After that he'd dragged his body over to the horse, put a bullet in its brain, and then done his best to splint his leg with branches gathered from nearby and the remnants of the horse's reins. It wasn't much, but it had allowed him to stand and move under his own power for an hour or two.

Joe breathed in a noseful of cold air and lifted his tired body a few inches higher. The knock he'd taken to the head on the way down had muddled his thinking. The ravine was a few miles out from Carrie's cabin. He'd fallen a good fifty feet or so to its lowest point. Still, the old cabin in the Piney Woods should have been to his back, which meant he was movin' east. Or at least, he _thought_ he was movin' east. Since it was dusk, he couldn't see the sun. There was nothing to guide him

Other than a plume of smoke.

Pulling his right leg up and under him was agony, but he did it. Using the hand on that side as a prop, Joe rose up and balanced on his good knee. It held him briefly and – even more briefly – he felt triumphant, but then pain shuddered through him and he lost his balance and fell, landing on his back with his face turned toward the sky.

He was gonna die here.

He was gonna die and Pa would never know what happened to him. Of all the crazy stunts he'd pulled, the fights he'd started, the men he'd made mad enough to come after him – none of them had killed him.

' _Joseph Francis Cartwright'_ , his tombstone would read, ' _Best judge of horseflesh in all of Nevada lies here as a result of his own stupidity.'_

Joe lay there in silence waiting – waiting for his pa to come, waiting for the sound of his brothers' laughter to wash over him and make him so mad he'd come up with fists flying – waiting for God to send a miracle.

But there was nothing. Nothing but the darkness and a deep silence and the constant fall of snow that was impossibly early and improbably heavy.

Joe drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly, watching the vapor rise like his spirit toward the sky. A tear slid down his face, freezing instantly.

"I'm sorry, Pa," he whispered as he lifted his gun and used his last two bullets to signal he was in trouble.

Then Joseph Francis Cartwright fell silent as the night.

Ben Cartwright stood in his son's bedroom, gazing out the window at the impossible fall of snow. Autumn had barely begun and it was snowing! Something in him wanted to believe that the world was mourning too. The last year had seen so much loss – Joe's wife and unborn child.

Hoss.

A year ago today it had happened. His middle son had been ripped from them, leaving him and Joe to mourn. He'd sent letters out, hoping to catch Adam at one of the ports he visited, but in a year there had been no word. Joe needed his oldest brother. Though he had done everything in his power to convince his youngest son that there was no blame to be attached to his actions that day, Joe remained unconvinced. As the anniversary of Hoss' death approached, he'd watched his remaining son withdraw deeper and deeper into himself until speaking to him had become an exercise in futility. When Joe told him he was going up to the Piney Woods to check on Carrie Pickett, he'd let him go without an argument. Joe needed solitude just as much as _he_ needed his son's company. In the end his love as a father had won out over his own needs and he'd watched his son ride away. At the end of the yard Joe had halted and waved before disappearing from sight. He'd been a bit concerned that Joe's companion of many years had pulled a tendon and was out of the running for a mount. The horse Joe picked to replace Cochise – a sleek, fast black – was as young and impulsive as his son had once been. Still, if anyone knew horseflesh it was Joe and he had to believe his son had made the right choice.

Turning from the window, the older man walked to the bed and sat down. From his position on it, he looked around the room. He knew his old friends thought him tetched in the head for leaving both of his older sons' rooms as they had always been – as if, somehow, he expected them to walk into the house and resume their lives on the Ponderosa as if they had never left. In truth both rooms were a shrine to a golden era that had come and gone. Ben sniffed back a tear and straightened up. Walking over to the dresser, he picked up the portrait of Marie that Joe kept in his room. Yes, he was in his youngest's room, not in Hoss'.

On this day he chose to embrace life and not to focus on death.

With trembling fingers, Ben reached out to touch the face of his long dead wife. "Somehow, my darling," he whispered, "I knew it would be our boy who would stay with me. Watch over Joe, wherever he is. Bring him home."

A beam of light fell through the window striking Marie's portrait and setting its silver frame ablaze. The rancher stood still, fearful he would miss her reply when it came, and come it _did_ in the sound of footsteps in the hall.

"Mistah Cartwright no should be alone tonight," his old friend said. "Hop Sing fix roast pork in Mistah Hoss' honor. You come eat."

Ben put the frame down and turned toward his friend. "I'm not hungry, Hop Sing. Thank you."

"You eat for Mistah Hoss. He angry if you end up skin and bones!" The Chinese man advanced into the room. "Mistah Hoss want you to live. Want little brother to live." He paused. "Want both of you to move on."

At first he was angry, but then a sadness overtook him as he realized the truth his cook spoke. Hoss would be the first one to chide them for clinging to his death instead of celebrating his life.

"Roast pork, you say?" he asked, forcing his tone to be light. "With mashed potatoes?"

"And apple pie. You come. "

Ben hesitated. The idea of sitting at the dining room table – alone – was almost too much.

"I..."

"Hop Sing bring tray into great room. Eat in there." The little man paused. "Too cold in dining room."

Too cold? Yes.

Cold as the grave.

The sound of two shots echoed through the tangled woods where Joseph Cartwright lay. It bounded from one tree to the other until it reached the ears of a sturdy young man who was standing outside a ramshackle cabin approximately half-a-mile away, looking at the stars. He jumped at the sound because it meant he was not alone. Quicker than seemed possible for his massive frame, the youth bolted into the cabin and grabbed his mother's rifle and then returned to the dilapidated porch to listen for another shot.

Nothing came.

The youth rested the butt of the elegant weapon on one of the sturdier boards and waited. A few minutes later he heard a sound – not the bark of a rifle or gun, but the hungry cry of a wolf. It had been a lean year. Wolves, while they usually avoided men, could be driven to kill in hard times. If someone was out there – if that's what the shots meant – then they were in trouble. His ma had taught him to do the same thing, to fire off his rifle to signal he was in distress. She'd taught him other things as well, mostly that he had to be careful. That it was best not to let no anyone know they were there. Before he was born, she said, men came to this hill and they meant to do her harm 'cause she was different. If not for a stranger who'd been staying with her at the time, they would have. The man had driven them off before going his way. He'd helped her make the cabin strong and left some money with her; money that had helped to keep the two-footed wolves from her door.

It _sure_ was a pretty rifle.

Taking a few steps, the youth moved into the yard. The snow was an inch deep and still falling. It wouldn't last long. Odds were the next day the sun would melt it fast. But tonight, it was deadly. He stood there, considering his choices, and then realized he really didn't _have_ a choice. He couldn't bear for a creature to suffer, man or mouse. If someone was out there in need of help, then he had to do his best to give it.

His ma wouldn't have had it any other way.

Joe Cartwright woke in a panic. He was burning alive!

The wounded man blinked and looked down his lean frame toward his boots. A white hot fire surrounded the tan leather. It was creeping slowly up his body, igniting cloth and skin as it went. Terrified, he struggled to sit up. When he couldn't manage it, he lay on the ground, breathing hard. Lifting the only hand that would obey, Joe brought it to his face and pulled the black glove that sheathed it off with his teeth. He shook like a man with delirium tremens as he struggled to unbutton his jacket and shimmy out of it.

"You don't want to do that, mister," a voice said as a hand caught his and held it tightly. Another was placed on his shoulder and pinned him to the ground. "You ain't thinkin' right."

"No!" he shrieked. "No! You don't...understand. Hot...so hot! I'm _burning!"_

"You ain't burnin', Mister. You're freezin' cold."

Whoever it was, they were an idiot. Couldn't they see that white hot light? It was in his hair now, his eyes – it ran along his fingertips, seeking to consume him. With every bit of strength he had, Joe fought to free himself from the hands that held him, arching his back, striking out –

Screaming.

"Now you just stop that! You'll hurt yourself worse." One of the hands went to his forehead. It was followed by a low whistle. "You got a fever awful fierce. No wonder you think you're fryin'."

The voice sounded young...uncertain. Joe fought the fire in his brain, at last recognizing the symptoms of freezing to death. He drove the fear of that back until he could open his eyes. It was no use. His vision was as uncertain as his future. All he could tell was that someone was leaning over him; a tall, broad someone who sounded like a child but looked like a man.

Joe blinked. His hand reached out. "Hoss?" he whispered, his voice without strength. "Hoss?"

The boy-man shook his head. "Name's Rick. Short for Broderick. Ma says that's my pa's name, though how he came by one so sissified I don't know." Joe felt fingers grasp his frozen chin and turn his head. "That's some knock you took, Mister. You remember what happened?"

He did. He had.

Not any more.

Joe shook his head, setting off another explosion of incandescent pain.

"Lucky for you I heard those shots. You'd have had all your clothes off and froze to death come mornin'." The boy-man released him to rock back on his heels. "How bad are you hurt? Can you tell me? I gotta move you and I don't want to cause you any more pain than I have to."

Joe closed his eyes, shutting out the sight of the vivid white light. It took a moment, but then he began to tick off the things that hurt. "Arm," he said through gritted teeth, "ribs, leg. Left side." The injured man sucked in air. "Head hurts."

"Maybe I should of asked what _don't_ hurt," Rick sighed.

Joe managed a small smile. "Maybe."

Rick leaned forward. Gently, with the skill of a doctor, he ran his hands along Joe's injured limbs and then felt his ribs. As he finished, he sighed. "It's gonna hurt, Mister, no matter how I do it. If you ride, or if I get you on a travois, it's gonna hurt."

"Been...hurt before. Lots," Joe breathed.

"So you're a tough old coot, eh? You don't look so old," Rick paused, "or all that tough."

"Looks can be...deceiving."

Rick was silent for several slow, sluggish heartbeats. "Yeah, Ma said that too."

Joe feebly turned his head. "Is your...ma here?"

The boy-man shook his. "She went into the settlement for supplies. Guess, you're stuck with me."

He managed to lift his good hand and pat Rick's arm. "Glad to...know you."

Rick grinned. "Yeah, it's good to know you too. Now, why don't you just lie there while I figure out how to get you to the cabin."

Joe was drifting off. Rick's words revived him briefly. "You...got smoke in...your chimney?"

"On account of the snow, yeah. You seen it, didn't you? _That's_ why you were comin' this way."

He was surprised to hear fear color Rick's words. "What's..wrong?" he asked.

Rick was silent for a moment. "Nothin'", he said as he got to his feet. "Now, don't you go runnin' off, Mister. I'll be back as soon as I can with a horse. Do you think you can ride?"

He paused, assessing his injuries, and then shook his head. "No."

"Okay, then I'll bring Dumpy. He's a big fellow. He can pull a travois."

It hurt to laugh, but he couldn't help it. "Dumpy? What kind of..a...name is that for a horse?"

"My pa rode him when he was here cause Pa was big too. Old Dumpy's got one of those shaggy manes and kind of looks like he's ready for the glue factory. But don't let that fool you. He's strong as an ox and smart too."

"I think I'd like...to...have met your pa," Joe said as consciousness faded. He was aware enough to hear Rick's answer, but not aware enough to realize what he said.

"Yeah," the boy-man sighed. "Me too."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

oooooooooo

Ben Cartwright sat in his great room sipping a cup of excellent coffee. He'd opened the shutters on the window behind the dining room table to let the light in and been surprised to find the yard covered by several inches of snow. His thoughts went instantly to Joe, wondering if his son was all right. Then, he dismissed those thoughts just as quickly. Joseph was nearly thirty-two now, more than a young man if not quite a middle-aged one, and his son was well aware of the dangers on the road and how to keep himself warm on an unexpectedly cold night.

Ah, yes, there was the 'rub' as Adam would have put it.

Unexpectedly.

As was often the case, especially this time of year, the older man's gaze went to the table before the fire and its empty surface. For a year now the checkerboard had been missing. It was one of the first things Joseph had removed after his brother's death. He had no idea what his son had done with it. That checkerboard was as much a part of Hoss and Joe's relationship as their outrageous escapades and hard, side-by-side work. The pair had been nearly inseparable since Joe's birth. He remembered well that first day when he had opened the door to welcome Little Joe's brothers into the birthing room for a first look. Hoss had nearly bowled him over in his excitement to see his baby brother. Adam had been more reticent, as he always was, fearful too love too much for fear of loss.

What an irony that, in the end, his oldest had chosen to lose himself.

By six, Hoss was already reaching toward his older brother's height. At birth his middle son, Eric, had weighed more than twice what Joseph did. Both he and Marie had feared that the boy would be frightened he would hurt his little brother. Instead, they had marveled as Hoss, with his huge hands, took the baby from Marie and hushed his crying. As had been the pattern of his life, Joseph had entered it complaining that things weren't moving fast enough or going his way. Marie, exhausted, was at her wit's end. Hoss had cradled the crying child close to his chest and begun to speak quietly, as he would to an injured horse or fallen bird, and – slowly – Joseph had calmed. All their lives Hoss had been able to calm his baby brother when he was angry, or sullen and tired. Hoss was Joe's tether.

A tether that had been absent for a year now.

Ben took another sip of his coffee and then placed the cup on the table in lieu of the game board. It had happened so fast. No one would have thought – or could have believed – that morning that Joe would come home broken in body and spirit and that Hoss – Inger's Eric – would never come home again. They had gathered at the table for breakfast. Hop Sing had been at his finest. Both Joe and Hoss' birthdays were drawing near and with a wink the Chinese man announced he had decided to practice for their upcoming parties by fixing their favorite foods. That was a part of it, but they all knew as well that a long, hard day awaited the two of them. It had been a particularly wet autumn. There were mudslides and rock falls everywhere. Most of them had happened in inconsequential places and, though the damage to the trees would set them back some years, at least no one's life had been lost. Joe and Hoss were set to ride out and survey the damage to their property when a knock came at the door. How the man knew to come to them he had never learned. Somehow the stranger knew of Joe's connection to Carrie Pickett and had sought him out. Ben smiled. Of course, half of Virginia City as well as most of their ranch hands knew about Joe and Carrie. There were jokes – respectful ones – about his son's love for the old woman. Joe rode out a few times each year to check on her and, so far, the older woman was holding her own. She was well over sixty now and slowing down, but every time Joe returned with a grin on his face and stories of the rows he and the she had enjoyed.

Carrie, in a way, had come to fill the shoes of Joe's absent mother.

And so when Joe heard that there had been a massive rock fall near her home, he had to go. His brother quickly offered to go with him, shooting down any misgivings he might have had with a simple – 'Joe and me was goin' that way anyhow, Pa. We'll check on Miss Carrie and then go on about our business.' No amount of pleading could change either sons' mind and so, in the end, he had given up.

And regretted doing so every day since.

No. No, he didn't. If both brothers had not gone, Joe would be dead.

Ben frowned. His hand went to the bridge of his nose and pinched it.

Joe or Hoss?

How could he have _made_ such a choice?

Lowering his hand, the rancher stared at the door to his home. He could see the two of them putting on their hats and coats – Joe anxious, short-tempered; his mind already a day's ride away with the older woman. Hoss, smiling, taking his little brother's guff in stride as he always did with big hands, bigger steps, and the biggest heart.

With a sigh Ben rose and walked to the door, following them in his mind as they left that day, opening it and walking into the yard and heading for the barn. As he neared it, he recalled the conversation he had had with Hoss as his son checked the wagon's wheels and prepared to mount into the driver's seat.

'Are you sure you want to go, Hoss?' he'd asked him. 'From what Dave said, Carrie should be fine. Joe just has to see for himself.'

His son's crystal blue eyes had flicked to his brother who was leading Cochise out of the stable. 'I gotta go, Pa. You know Joe. If there's any danger, he'll throw himself right into it as sure as plungin' into the rapids without a rope.'

They'd shared a chuckle. Hoss knew his brother well. 'You've taken good care of him, son, from the day he was born,' he'd replied. 'Thank you for that.'

Hoss ducked his head in that way he had. 'Aw shucks, Pa. I couldn't live if somethin' happened to that little scamp. You know that.' Then, his middle son had said something odd. To this day he had no idea what it meant. 'I got me a hankerin' to see them Piney Woods too. You know, Pa, a long time ago... Well, I think I left somethin' there. Somethin', I should of gone back for.'

Ben dropped onto a bale of hay and stared at his son's big Black. Chubb was still in mourning as much as he and Joe. Sitting there, he thought again of Hoss' words. Something he left? Something he should have gone back for? At the time he'd thought Hoss was speaking of something that had happened the day they'd ridden hard to Carrie Pickett's home, arriving just in time to save Joe from a beating – or worse.

Now, he wasn't so sure.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Joe Cartwright shifted.

It was a stupid thing to do.

Pain exploded in his head and along the left side of his body. He closed his eyes and held his breath as he waited for the assault to end. It didn't, but it fell off to a lingering siege. Gingerly, Joe let the breath out and shifted again, which made him moan, which brought in turn a soft spoken...

"Mister?"

One eye opened while the other squinted in protest of the action. Joe sucked in a breath and then made it heave-to and open as well. His vision was fuzzy and he couldn't make much out. He was fairly certain he wasn't outside. Everything around him looked brown – well, brown spotted with a watercolor wash of colors. There was a vague light spilling in through a square opening, so he figured he must be in the cabin and the sun was up.

And the fuzzy face hanging over him must be Rick.

"Mornin'," he managed.

"Whew! You sure scared me. Last night you was out of your head yellin' all kinds of crazy things." A hand came to rest on his forehead. "The fever ain't gone."

Joe narrowed his eyes, trying to bring Rick into focus. From the round shape of his face and the wide eyes in it, he guessed his rescuer was a youth and not a man as his size indicated. Lucky for him that he was a big feller, or he would have still been lyin' out there in the snow.

"Hurt," he replied, and then tried again. "Left side hurts. Did you...?"

"I cleaned everythin' out that I could. Ma left some alcohol and bandages, just in case. A couple of pain powders too. You want one?"

Joe considered it seriously. Then he shook his head. He had to figure out where he was and who the youth was and – more importantly – how to get word to his father that he was alive.

Of all the times of year to go missing!

"Rick, is there any way...you can get word out –"

The youth – hasty as the young were – cut him of. "Ain't no one around, Mister. Just you and me, and I can't leave you alone long enough to go to the settlement. You're hurt real bad. You might..."

Die. That was what Rick was thinking.

Joe closed his eyes. What an irony. One day past when Hoss...passed...and he might die less than a mile away from where it happened.

Feebly, he reached out to touch the boy's flannel-sleeved arm. "I'm...not going to die," he said with a forced smile. "Too damn stubborn."

The boy laughed.

Good. That's what he was trying for.

"Are you hungry?" Rick asked. "I got me some eggs left from breakfast."

Joe's stomach rolled at the thought. He shook his head. "Is that coffee I smell?"

"Yes, sir. You want some?"

It took its time to work through his muddled brain, but suddenly Joe realized he'd forgotten to introduce himself. Imagine that.

Dropping his hand from the boy's sleeve, he said, "Call me Joe. My pa is 'sir'."

"You live with your pa?"

Joe was fading. He lifted one eyelid to look at Rick. The boy's face was a tiny bit clearer. He thought he might have red hair. His eyes were pale, but his vision was too screwed up to guess the color.

"Sure, I live with my pa. Have all my life."

"You ain't married or nothin'? No kids?"

It was natural for the young man to be curious, and just as natural for him to want to talk about anything else.

"No," he muttered and then added, only half-faking it. "Need to sleep."

Rick jumped up. "Sorry, Mister...Joe. Sorry. I didn't mean to keep you awake." He paused. "You still want that coffee?"

"Later," Joe mumbled.

"I'll keep it hot."

Joe waved his good hand in thanks and then drifted of to sleep.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Rick waited until the older man was asleep and then stepped out of the house and gazed up at the sky. It was somethin' his ma had taught him to do. ' _A man can't get too big for his britches if he looks at the sky. Keeps him humble. Let's him know how small he is_ ,' she used to say.

He sure missed her.

The boy's head shook as his eyes dropped to the ground. The snow was almost gone, melted off by the rising light. God's ways sure were funny. The man inside was hurt bad, but most likely he could have walked right up to the house and asked for help if it hadn't been for the snow and the cold. Or maybe just got back up on his horse and rode home. He was tough-lookin', like a cowboy or miner, and he supposed he could survive an awful lot. From all the scars on him it looked like he already had! He was sure glad Joe'd been unconscious when he had to pull his shirt and pants off of him. His left side was a mess. It looked like a boulder or somethin' had rolled right over him. His leg was broken on that side and he wasn't too sure about his arm. There were a couple of ribs caved in too, but it was the knock on the head the wounded man had taken that worried him the most. He'd hit his head like that once and the doctor'd been scared he wouldn't be all right. He knew he had to wake Joe up every hour or so just to make sure he could.

Right now he sure wished Ma hadn't chosen to live so far outside of civilization, back in a holler where nobody knew where they was.

Ma didn't like people. She said she was tired of bein' made fun of and laughed at, and so she chose to live with the animals 'cause they didn't care if she could hear or not. From the time he was born it was just the two of them and so he'd never thought nothin' of it. It was just the way she was. He always had to be sure she was lookin' at him when he wanted her to hear what he was sayin'.

Rick snorted. It was kind of fun that he could say things when she _wasn't_ lookin' that she couldn't hear!

Ma was real close too, about where she come from and who her folks were and such. She was even closer about his pa. Almost like Pa was a bank robber or somethin'. She said once that he came from a good family, which kind of did away with his outlaw theory, and that his pa had other 'responsibilities'.

Responsibilities. Somethin' other than takin' care of his ma and him.

He wondered what they was.

With a sigh, Rick picked up the bucket on the stoop. Stepping off of the porch, he headed for the water barrel. It'd be full of nice clean, cold water from the snow-melt. Joe was gonna need it. He'd seen his ma through enough fevers, and had them himself, to know the worst was yet to come. He'd done his best with what he had to clean out Joe's wounds, but was afraid it wasn't enough. It was autumn and the ground was covered with bright orange, red, and yellow leaves . Underneath that pretty blanket was a lot of rot. It was good for the trees and grass, but not so good for an injured man.

As he turned back, the dawning light struck the small structure Rick called home. It was sturdily built; strong enough to withstand winds and torrential rains, snow, and the heat of the summer. His Ma told him his pa had helped her make it strong before he left, wanting to make sure she'd be all right. He'd asked her once why he never came back and she said it was because she told him not to. She wouldn't have him waste his life takin' care of no cripple. Ma always called herself that. She weren't no cripple. Leastways, not physically. She could do everythin' except hear.

And, it seemed to him, live.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Hop Sing shake head as he reach for potato. For the last day he bury himself in kitchen work. It too painful to see Mistah Ben alone in house that once was filled with the laughter and shouts of three mischievous and much loved boys. The omens had not been good when Mistah Adam chose to leave. An ill wind blew, bringing with it much sorrow. Like a crouching dragon, tragedy waited to strike and when it did, the dragon's fire nearly burned all away, taking with it Little Joe's wife and child and Mistah Hoss.

The man from China paused in his chopping to wipe away a tear. He glanced at the shrine he kept in the kitchen, tucked in a nook between two cupboards. For many long years Missy Marie watch him from there as he care for the ones she love. Her beautiful face stare at him from its nest of seasonal flowers and bits of silk taken from the beautiful scarves she once place around home. Beside it lay another shrine. This one hold the photo kindly given to him by Mistah Ben of number two son. Letting his knife fall to the cutting block, Hop Sing cleaned his hands on his apron and then walked over to look at it. Mistah Hoss smile as always; his big face reflecting bigger heart. Photo hand-painted. Color of Mistah Hoss' hair right, but no paint could be as blue as his bright and loving eyes.

Each day, every hour, Mistah Hoss and Missy Cartwright watch over him and those who come into his kitchen. He keep pictures hidden between cupboards because number three son cannot bear to look at them.

Number three son blame himself for number two son's death.

With a sigh, Hop Sing returned to the chopping block and sank down in the chair beside it, allowing himself a moment more for thought. How well he remember. Day and night wind howl like _Feng Hao_ angry. All day _Wen Zhong, Lei Gong,_ and _Dian Mu_ contend with one another, crashing and thundering their displeasure; throwing spears of rain and sleet against house. Little Joe and brother Hoss leave day before to go help Miss Carrie, make sure she okay. Every hour they gone Mistah Ben roam house liked caged tiger chewing on worry.

Mistah Ben right to worry.

The Chinese man closed his eyes and drew a breath. Slowly, he let it out as he opened his hands and rested them on his knees, seeking balance. Vision that confront him tear at his heart. Mistah Ben hear it first – horses' hooves pounding into yard. HopSing in dining room, clearing dishes. Sudden noise make one drop and smash.

It also omen of what was to come.

Mistah Ben rise to feet as front door fly open. Doctor Martin come in first. Behind doctor come men carrying Little Joe. Number three son white and black like chessboard, skin very pale and covered with deep purple bruises. Little Joe barely breathing. Men carry him upstairs toward his room as Mistah Ben turn to follow.

Doctor stop him.

The Chinese man opened his eyes. Tears trailed down his cheeks. He hear Mistah Ben ask how is Little Joe? Doctor shake his head and then say...

'Ben, there's more.'

Never forget Mistah Ben stepping out of house and walking to wagon; rain pouring down like his tears. Only thing that anchor him to the living is number three son. Very sick. Almost die as well.

Not _want_ to live.

Hop Sing sat a moment longer and then rose to his feet. Though Mistahs Hoss and Adam no longer home, still plenty to do; plenty men to care for. Young Mistah Jamie due home from trip with Candy to mark trees soon. Boy need much food to grow tall like brothers.

Disappointed with himself, the Cartwright's Chinese cook struck a tear from his cheek. Must remember wise mother's words, spoken when he a young man.

' _All of life is a dream walking, all of death is a going home.'_

Hop Sing had just driven his fist into a mound of dough, with a little more violence than was necessary, when he sensed he was not alone.

"I hope I'm not disturbing you."

He shake head. "Mistah Cartwright always welcome in Hop Sing's kitchen."

Mistah Ben chuckle as he knew he would. "Thank you."

Indicating the chair he'd just vacated with a nod, the man from China said, "Sit."

Mistah Ben stare at him. Rancher not sit, but cross over to the area that holds shrines. He stand a moment, looking at the faces of loved ones lost, and then turn back to say, "I can feel him here today. Hoss, I mean."

Fear in his voice.

Hop Sing set the bowl of chopped vegetables aside. He feel it too – a presence, almost as strong as in life.

Mistah Ben walk over to door with window in it that look out on porch. He stare out of it a moment and then announce, "I'm going after Joe." Then he turn to look at him as if he expects argument. Mistah Joe almost thirty-two; too old to have his father follow.

Too young to know better.

When Hop Sing say nothing, Mister Ben go on. "I can't help it. I feel..." He ran hand across his face. "Maybe it's just the...time of year, but I can't help feeling there's been trouble. That Joe is...hurt."

"Wise man not ignore voice of heart," he say softly. "Mistah Cartwright _very_ wise man."

"Or an very _old_ fool," his boss and friend counter.

"I pack basket. You take to Little Joe."

The rancher laugh. "The usual?"

"Plenty food, coffee, special teas," he say as he began to move. "Put on top of salve and bandages. Add bottle of brandy from cabinet."

Mistah Ben's lips twitch. "Sounds about right." His boss cross room to stand by his side. Hand fall on shoulder. "Thank you for understanding, old friend, and for not chiding this old mother hen."

"Mother hen take good care of chick. Gather under wing to keep safe." Hop Sing pick up apron and make shooing motion. "You go find Little Joe. You tell him Hop Sing say so!"

Older man indicate things he gather together. "Should I...?"

"I bring basket out to barn. You go now!"

Mistah Ben straighten up and salute. "Yes, sir!" he say with laugh.

Hop Sing turn back and pretend to go to work then, but as soon as friend is out of the kitchen, he drop what he is doing and walk over to the shrine. Once there, he light candle and place a stick of incense at its heart.

"What you think, Mistah Hoss? Should Hop Sing go too?"

At that moment wind outside rises and Mister Ben's sailor's bell that hangs on porch strikes three times.

Hop Sing bow his head, deeply humbled. After he finish basket for Little Joe, he begin another.

Mistah Ben not know it yet, but he not go alone.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

oooooooooo

"Hey there, little brother, rise and shine."

Joe opened his eyes only to have raindrops fall from his lashes and slide down his cheeks. He groaned. Rise and _drown_ was more like it.

"Right," he snarled as he sat up in the bed of the wagon and fought to get his twisted rain slicker back into place. They'd taken turns sleeping and he'd just happened to draw the straw for doing it during a downpour. The bed of the wagon and his horse, who was tethered to the back board, were just as soaked as he was.

As he sat there, struggling with the slicker, Hoss turned in the seat and reached out to take hold of his chin. Stunned, Joe did nothing to break away as his brother turned his head from side to side and looked behind his ears like he was making sure he'd washed.

Coming awake, he jerked his head away. "What the heck do you think you're doing?" he demanded.

"Just checkin' to see if you'd growed any gills." Hoss shook his head and sent water flying from the rim of his ten gallon hat before turning back to the road. "Sure looks like you're gonna need them today."

Joe turned his face toward the sky. It was a sullen gray and, while it wasn't raining now, there was no sign the storm was going away any time soon. Clambering up onto the wagon seat, he sat beside his brother as they started to move again.

"What's it got to rain for?" he groused as he plucked his soaked pants off his soaked legs.

"Cain't be no flowers without rain, little brother. Wouldn't be no trees neither, nor nothin' to eat. Fact is, the world would be a right sorry place without rain." His giant of a brother turned and grinned at him. "Into every life a little rain's gotta fall."

Joe stared at him a moment. "Hoss, can I tell you something?"

"You got a secret?" his brother asked.

He sniffed and then blew a sodden curl from his nose. "No."

"Then what 'a you want to tell me?"

"Shut up."

For a moment Hoss did nothing – then he exploded with laughter.

As the day passed Joe's mood improved and soon the two of them were talking and laughing in spite of the rain, which returned not with a gale force as feared, but in a miserable constant drizzle. At one point he shimmied out of his slicker and put his green jacket back on. It was no use. Between the water dripping off his hat and the soaked wooden seat he occupied, he was wet through. At least the jacket was dry – momentarily. Hoss didn't seem to mind the rain. He was whistling and appeared not to have a care in the world.

Joe smiled to himself. Maybe it was middle brother who'd grown gills.

They were a few miles down the road from Carrie's cabin, near a place where the road took a sudden turn and ran close to the edge of a ravine, when they came across a woman whose wagon was stuck in the mud. The ramshackle vehicle was blocking the path so, even if they'd wanted to, they couldn't have gone past her.

Of course, being gentlemen, they wouldn't have wanted to.

As Hoss pulled the wagon to a halt, Joe jumped off and headed for the woman who was knee-deep in mud, ignoring his brother's protests that he wait. Childish as it was, he turned back and flashed Hoss a smile – and then rammed his fingers in his ears and stuck out his tongue.

'See, Adam,' he thought as he turned back. 'I'm all grown up.'

When he was a few feet away Joe called out to the woman. She didn't respond. She wasn't very big. About five foot or so. Her pale blonde hair dangled down the back of a calico blouse that had seen better days. When he called again and she _still_ didn't answer, he decided she was so focused on what she was doing that she hadn't heard him.

He realized differently when he laid his hand on her shoulder and she turned around and decked him.

Hoss was climbing out of the wagon. As he landed butt-first in the mud, his brother stopped and leaned on its side and let out the loudest, longest belly laugh he'd ever heard. Blinking away mud, Joe rose to his feet and took another step toward the woman. She was pretty all right. She had a delicate heart-shaped face, wide brown eyes, and a pert little mouth. She was also looking down the sight of a rifle that was aimed at his heart. As Hoss moved, the rifle shifted toward him, halting middle brother about thirty feet away. A second later he heard a sharp intact of breath. Hoss started to say something.

That was when it happened.

There was a rushing sound and it seemed like the whole world came down on top of him. The side of the hill let loose, bringing with it a flood of water, stones, and bracken. He reached out for the woman. She was falling away from him. The rifle went off and he felt a searing pain in his head.

And then, he was buried alive.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Joe woke gasping for air.

He'd been back in the mud, trying to claw his way free. It had filled his eyes, his mouth and nose. He'd known he was dead. There was nothing that could stop the primeval power of a river of water set loose.

Nothing but his brother.

Tears ran down Joe's cheeks in imitation of that river. Sobs wracked his battered form, sending ripples of pain along his left side. They were nothing compared to the pain – the guilt and grief – he'd carried with him this last year. For a time his love of Alice had driven the darkness away, but with her death it had returned, bringing with it its own darker waters. He couldn't understand why his brother had done what he had done. That's what he told himself. But he did.

Hoss had simply been – Hoss.

Sucking in tears and steeling himself for agony, Joe dragged his weary body up and into a seated position so he could look around the small cabin he lay in. His eyesight still wasn't what it should be, but it had cleared enough for him to see fairly well. The house was sturdy and fairly clean. Its condition reminded him of his childhood bedroom when Hop Sing took a holiday. Everything was straightened but untidy. There were well-ordered dishes piled in the dry sink and sort-of folded clothes hanging over chair backs. A light coating of dust showed on the sparse furniture that filled the cabin. He remembered Rick saying his mother was away.

From the look of things he wondered just how _long_ she'd been away.

Joe sat for a moment, ruminating on how he'd gotten himself into this latest predicament, and then with a snort decided – what the Hell! – he'd see if he could stand. He could tell by the state of his long johns, which had been soaked and grown stiff, that his fever had broken overnight. He was feeling better. In fact, he was hungry. Since his young host was nowhere to be found, he figured he would see if he could make it to the stove and at least get some coffee. The inviting scent filled the room, calling him like a siren singing for a sailor. As he pushed himself up with his good hand and began the laborious task of swinging his splinted leg over the side of the bed, Joe snorted.

He could just hear Doc Martin now.

Rick had done a good job on his leg. The splints were sturdy. The boards looked like slats from a corn crib. The youth had bound them with strips of cloth that were knotted nice and tight. As he sat there, breathing hard, Joe assessed his other injuries. His head was ringing like he'd just finished a lecture from Hop Sing. His eyesight was still fuzzy. Every time he moved his ribs screamed out in protest. His left arm was held in a sling against his chest, so he guessed he must have sprained it, and his leg was painfully broken. Just another normal day for Joe Cartwright. Doc Martin called him a 'walking miracle'.

More like a walking mess.

Taking hold of the bedpost with his good hand, Joe levered himself onto his feet and then stood there waiting for the fireworks to end. He needed some kind of crutch and – luckily – found one in a broom that was leaned up against the bed, along with a pail. Wrinkling his nose, he guessed the use it had been put to.

He'd have to apologize to Rich for puking all over his floor.

Propping the broom-head in his armpit, Joe started his slow walk across the cabin. Doc Martin would have cursed his cussedness. Pa'd be out of his head with worry. Hop Sing would be hoppin' mad and Hoss...

God, Hoss.

His thoughts made him misstep and Joe felt himself heading for the floor. A pair of strong arms caught him before he could hit it. He must have missed Rick opening the door.

"Joe! What do you think you're doin'?" his rescuer demanded.

' _Bein' Joe Cartwright, what else?_ ' he thought, but he said, "That coffee sure smells good."

"Land of Goshen!" the youth exclaimed. "You take more lookin' after than my ma."

As Rick lowered him into a chair at the table, Joe asked, winded, "Is that a...good or a...bad thing?"

The young man had gone to the stove and returned with a steaming blue spatterware cup that he placed before him. Rick stood looking at him as he reached out with a trembling hand to take hold of it.

"You shouldn't be out of bed," he said.

"You sound like my pa," Joe snorted. He took a sip and released the warmth. He was chilled, which meant his temperature was probably rising again.

Nothing like taking a stroll on a broken leg to bring it back.

Rick's large hand landed on his forehead. He was obviously thinking the same thing. "You always this stubborn?" he asked.

Joe sat the cup down. The warmth was great, but the dark liquid was turning his stomach. "My pa says since I drew my first breath," he replied.

"Ma says I'm stubborn too. Says I get it from my pa." Rick paused and then, for the first time, he laughed. "I think I get it from her."

As casually as he could, Joe asked, "When is your ma due back?"

There was another pause – this one a little too long. "Not for a week or so. You'll probably be gone 'fore she comes home." The youth turned and walked back to the stove. "You want I should fix you something to eat?"

Joe pivoted slightly in his chair and, from his vantage point at the table, studied the young man. He was tall. Near six foot or over. He reminded him of Hoss in that he was built big and strong as an ox, but gentle at the same time. Rick's hair was light in tone and reddish. From what he'd seen, he thought he had gray eyes – sort of a light, pale smoky blue like a wolf's. But then he hadn't really 'seen' him all that well yet. His vision was still messed up.

"No thanks," he answered. "Maybe later. My stomach's kind of off." Joe paused and then asked, "How old are you – if you don't mind my asking?"

Rick's shoulders stiffened. "Sixteen," he said. "Why?"

"Oh, no reason. I guess I was wonderin' about your ma leaving you alone so long, what with winter coming."

"She'll be back before then. She always goes into the settlement this time of year to get supplies." Rick turned toward him and he heard the first anger in the young man's tone. "I can look out for myself. Better than you can!"

Joe held up his good hand. "Sorry, I didn't mean to rile you." He hesitated and then laughed. "Good Lord! I sound like my brother Adam."

"You got brothers?" Rick asked, the longing clear in his voice.

"One living and one...dead," he replied, his voice cracking.

The young man looked uncomfortable. "Sorry."

Sorry his brother was dead or sorry he asked, Joe wondered?

"It's okay. If I don't talk about them, then it's like they never lived."

"You said only one was dead."

Joe winced. "My older brother left home years ago. We hear from him now and then. I guess, in a way, it's like he's dead too."

"My pa's dead. Or at least Ma told me he is."

With his wounded eyes, Joe studied the youth as best he could. Rick had come back to the table with his own cup of coffee and sat down. There was a roundness to his face and a sense of innocence about him. He couldn't make out any sign of a beard. If it hadn't been for Hoss, he might have believed him when he said he was sixteen. Pa told him Hoss was six feet tall and near two hundred pounds by the time he was twelve.

He was thinkin' now that Rick wasn't much older.

"What do you remember about him?" he asked.

The boy frowned. "Nothin'. I never met him."

There was such a longing in his voice that it almost reduced him to tears. "My brother Adam never met his ma. She died when he was born." Joe hesitated because he was growing fatigued and his emotions were on edge, but he went on. He felt he owed it to Rick to tell him. "I knew my mama, but she died when I was four."

"I had my mama..." Rick stopped. "I've always had my mama. I'm sorry you didn't have yours – and lost your brother."

So, Rick's ma _was_ dead. That's what he'd thought. The boy was living all the way out here all alone, pretending he was a man. For a moment he thought to call him on it, but then decided this wasn't the time.

Besides, he wasn't going anywhere for a while.

"Joe, you don't look so good," Rick said.

Joe leaned back in the chair. Truth was, he didn't _feel_ so good. "I guess stubbornness will only take you so far," he admitted, his lips twisting in a wry smile.

The boy hesitated, then blurted out, "I like you Joe. I wouldn't want anythin' to happen to you."

For a second there was something – some tug on his heart – but it was at that moment that his injuries decided to make themselves known again.

The world began to spin.

Rick was at his side in a second. He took hold of him and lifted him from the chair as if he weighed no more than a sack of flour. "Here, lean on me," the boy said as they began the seemingly endless trip back to the bed. By the time they reached it, he was exhausted.

Rick lowered him to the bed and drew the covers up to his chin. Then, he reached out to touch his arm. "You're gonna be okay, Joe. I'll take good care of you."

A deep longing filled him at the boy's words – for his missing brothers, for his pa and home. Joe fought the tears, but they came anyway, streaking down his cheeks.

"I'll stay here 'til you're asleep," Rick said softly.

Knowing he was in good hands, Joe did just that.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

About two hours later Rick rose stiffly to his feet and headed for the door. With a glance at Joe where he lay, finally quiet in his bed, he walked outside and into the yard.

The light was fading and the day ending. Outside the air was crisp with that smell it had only in the autumn. A strong wind drove the rust-red leaves and brown nettles before it, dashing them against the cabin's walls before rounding them up into a sort of dance. His ma had loved this time of year. One time, when he'd asked her why since everythin' was dyin', she'd told him it wasn't dyin', it was just goin' to sleep and one day soon it would all wake up brand new. His ma believed in God. She read to him out of her Bible in that funny high-pitched voice of hers. She'd told him, just before she disappeared, that when she got to Heaven she'd be able to hear just like everybody else. She said she was lookin' forward to it. That nobody would laugh at her there.

Rick turned back to look at the cabin. He'd left the door open so he could see Joe through it. His ma had always been afraid of strangers. That's why she built her place back in a holler at the bottom of the ravine. A good many years back, when he'd been around seven, a man had come around askin' questions. Ma had walked that man right out of there with her fancy rifle pointed at his backside. They heard he gave the old lady near the lake some trouble, but it all came out right and they never saw him again.

Since Ma's disappearance he'd mostly fended for himself. Now and then he'd ride old Dumpy up to the top of the ridge and meet one of the traders who came through. He'd buy coffee and other things off of them that he couldn't find or hunt for himself. They always thought he was a lot older than he was, so they left him alone. Last winter, without Ma, he'd hunkered down and stayed inside. When spring came, he guessed his ma was probably where she wanted to be – up in Heaven dancin' and listenin' to the Heavenly music. Spring and summer were good 'cause of the animals. They knew he was all right and came right up to the cabin and ate out of his hand. He didn't miss his ma so much when the animals were around. He hadn't realized how lonely he was 'til Joe came.

He didn't know what he would do if he died.

Rick chewed his lip as he leaned against the fence at the edge of the yard. It kept in the few chickens he had and the old goat he got milk from. The only reason Joe was sleepin' was that he gave him one of those powders his ma had. He didn't know if it was smart, but Joe was thrashin' about on the bed and he got worried he was gonna hurt himself worse. It took some work, but he got the sick man to swallow the bitter liquid and then he went quiet.

Real quiet.

Rick ran a hand through his pale hair. He sure hoped he'd got all them wounds of Joe's cleaned out okay. He didn't have much practice on people, just animals. His ma said he had a way with hurting things. He wished he could have helped her when _she_ was hurting, but there wasn't no way. One of the traders told him a little blonde woman had died the year before after bein' caught in a flash flood.

Since she never came back, he figured it was her.

Pushing off the fence, Rick steeled himself and headed back to the cabin. Joe was awful sick. His fever had been so high it had scared him. The wounded man kept callin' out for his pa and for someone called 'Hoss'. It was funny, he thought as he reached the porch. His ma used to call Dumpy that sometimes when she was combin' him.

'Good old hoss,' she'd say. 'Strong as an ox.'

He missed his ma, but he was gonna miss Joe even more when he went home.

Rick stopped in the doorway. Joe hadn't moved.

 _If_ he went home.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

oooooooooo

"Mistah Ben eat. Hop Sing no cook food to feed birds!"

Ben smiled. It was a toss-up as to which of them was the worst mother hen. He was glad he'd given in and let Hop Sing accompany him, but there was a price to be paid. In his opinion he'd already eaten enough to last him until they got home! He found, as he aged, that his appetite was smaller, probably due to the fact that he did more desk work than leg work now. Joe had taken over many of the tasks on the ranch. His son worked hard to keep their dream alive.

Was Joe alive, he wondered?

After grudgingly accepting another plate, heaped nearly as high as the first, Ben pushed the food around with his fork as his eyes strayed to the tree line. He hadn't been up this way since...well, since the spring after the accident that had claimed his middle son's life and nearly carried off his youngest as well. The purpose of his trip had been two-fold, to make certain the road was cleared and to check on Carrie Pickett. The older woman had been worried. She was devastated to hear what had happened. Before he left he'd gone to the closest settlement and hired a man to check on her twice a year to make certain she was well supplied.

He hadn't known at the time if Joe would ever want to come this way again.

Ben noticed Hop Sing watching and forced himself to lift the fork to his mouth. As he chewed, he thought about that youngest boy of his. It had taken Joseph nearly the whole winter to recover and, even then, that was only physically. No amount of talking could make the boy see that the accident – that his brother's death – had not been his fault. The older man shuddered as his fork fell to the plate. Joseph had been buried alive. Hoss had rushed into a raging torrent of mud, debris, and fast running water to save his brother. They had both made it out. Then Hoss went back in to save the woman.

And didn't come out again.

Ben started as he felt the plate being taken out of his fingers. Almost at the same moment a hand rested on his shoulder.

"Mistah Ben tired. He should sleep. Tomorrow not share. Keep its own company."

In other words, they had no idea what the next day would bring.

After a trip to the woods to relieve himself, Ben discovered Hop Sing had made him a bed fit for a king out of a light feather tick and downy comforter. The Chinese man had packed the wagon and had managed to squirrel both items away among the other supplies, which were enough to outfit Grant's army. Along with a half-dozen blankets, there were several pillows and two hampers of food. Ben grinned in spite of his apprehension. Somehow their food supply had outgrown a basket before it reached the yard. Hop Sing had also included his emergency chest; the one he brought with him when they went on a drive. In it were alcohol and bandages, as well as various herbs and potions that had proven effective with his boys in their younger years.

How he longed for those years gone by!

It took about a half hour for his friend to finish all his self- imposed chores. After Hop Sing lay down, the world grew hushed. With the exception of a few animals shifting and snuffling within the cover of the leaves, there was no sound save the beating of his heart. He often wondered why he was still alive. At sixty-three he had long outlived many of his friends. The West was a harsh mistress, seductive in her allure and often deadly. He had sacrificed two wives and one son to her and for what? A thousand acres of land that his oldest did not want and his youngest wanted only because it had been _his_ dream.

No, that wasn't fair, to him or to Joe. Joe loved the Ponderosa. It was his life.

Closing his eyes, Ben whispered a prayer to his Maker, asking for protection for his child.

It was a long time before he fell asleep.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

There was a sound. Someone reading.

Joe laid with his eyes closed, listening. The words were from the Bible. He must be in his bedroom at home and Pa was sitting with him, reading.

He must be sick.

As he laid there, he took an inventory of what hurt – his arm, his head, his chest, and especially his left leg. Not sick then. Hurt. Injured.

Injured when his horse went over the edge of a cliff and fell down into a ravine.

The voice continued, speaking words he knew well.

"The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures. He leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul. He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil for thou art with me. Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies. Thou anointest my head with oil. My cup runneth over..."

"Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life," Joe finished, his voice a weak rasp that surprised him. "And I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever."

Rick smiled as he lowered the leather tome to his lap. "Hey! You're awake!"

Joe hesitated, but then decided to be honest. "Unfortunately."

"Are you hurtin' bad? Do you want another powder?"

He shook his head. "Not now. Might...need it later." The minute he tried to shift on the pillow to sit up, Rick was right there lifting him. Joe waited a moment to catch his breath and then said, "Thanks. You sure are strong."

"Broad and strong, Ma says." Rick paused and the smile returned. "She'd say you're kind of puny."

Joe snorted. He wondered briefly if Rick's mother had looked like Bessie Sue Hightower. "I guess that's why my brothers, heck, _everyone_ used to call me Little Joe. 'Course, next to middle brother anyone would have looked puny."

"Your brother was big?" the boy asked innocently, his eyes wide with wonder. "How?"

Joe leaned his head back against the pillow as the image of his big, strong brother plunging into the maelstrom of rocks, mud, and rushing water rose before them. "We had different mas," he said, his tone utterly weary. "Pa's a good size. Hoss' ma was kind of tall from what I understand. My mama was petite." He laughed. "She's the one named me _petit_ Joseph."

"Was she French? I mean that's French for 'little', ain't it? _Petit?"_

He nodded. "Kind of. She was from New Orleans."

"Gosh. That's a long way from here," Rick said. "I ain't never been anywhere farther than the settlement."

He'd been looking for an opening. Even though Rick seemed pretty self-sufficient, the middle of nowhere was nowhere for a twelve or thirteen year old boy to live alone. "You could come with me, you know? Visit the Ponderosa. That's where I live."

The boy frowned.

"What is it?" Joe asked.

"I don't know," he said with a shrug. "Seems I heard that name before. Like maybe Ma mentioned it."

"Well, it's the biggest spread around here. Most people know about the Cartwrights and the Ponderosa."

"That your last name? Cartwright?"

He nodded. Then he realized he didn't know Rick's. "What's yours?"

"I got Ma's name. It's Ferrell. Broderick Ferrell." The boy paused and then said, softly, "I don't know what Ma would think about me goin' off with a stranger."

Joe turned his head so he was lookin' straight at Rick. "I don't think she'd mind." He paused and then added, as gently as he could, "She's dead, isn't she, Rick? I mean, you're all alone here."

Rick's jaw grew tight. For a minute it looked like he'd deny it. Then he sniffed and nodded.

Joe wanted to ask how she'd died, but it really was none of his business. The boy, however, had become very _much_ his business now. Still, he knew what it was to be young and think you were years older than you were. So instead of insisting, he leaned his head back and closed his eyes and said, "Well, you think about it, okay? Pa would want to pay you back for what you've done for me. A visit would be a good way to do that."

"I don't need no pay for it. It was my Christian duty," Rick declared.

Joe opened his eyes and looked at the book in the boy's hands. "That your ma's?" he asked.

As Rick nodded, Joe noticed an envelope – no, two, tucked inside the back cover. He could tell that at least one of them was unopened. "Your ma leave those for you? The letters, I mean."

Unexpectedly, the boy paled. "I ain't sure. I can't read the words on the front."

"But you were reading from the Bible."

"I can read print. I can't read that fancy stuff. Ma never taught me."

"Script? You mean you can't read script?"

"Whatever you call it."

Joe hesitated. He didn't want to intrude. "You want me to take a look at them?"

Again, the boy got a funny look on his face. "Maybe later," he said as he rose and went to put the Bible on the table. Once he had, he looked back. "You hungry? You ain't eaten much."

He considered it. He did feel better, though the pain was pretty intense and masked his need for food. "I can try."

"I made some soup. I figured maybe eggs and bacon would be too hard."

"Thanks. I really appreciate everything you've done for me."

"I..." Rick paused. "It ain't nothin', and I'm glad for the company." With that he turned and walked toward the stove.

Joe leaned back again. He was exhausted, not only from pain but from talking – and even more from the memories the boy aroused. He was a lot like Hoss, or like his brother must have been as a kid. Soft-spoken and gentle with a hidden strength.

Unbidden tears coursed down his cheeks.

God, how he missed him.

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"This is where we part," Ben said.

"Mistah Cartwright sure that best thing?" Hop Sing asked, his tone unconvinced.

The rancher turned and looked again at the edge of the road. It was obvious something – or someone – had gone over it and not all that long before. The brittle brown grass was chewed up and a cascade of rocks and dirt had tumbled down into the ravine. He prayed it had nothing to do with Joe, but he couldn't ignore it.

"I need you to go on to Carrie's and see if Joe is there." He looked at the sky. The day was wearing on. "It will only take a few hours. If he's not there, you can come back. We need to know."

"You go down there?" Hop Sing asked, pointing over the edge.

"Yes. I noticed a moderate slope about a mile back. Buck can work his way down there."

"You think Little Joe fall?"

The rancher winced. "I certainly hope not, but this road is precarious at best and Joe wasn't riding Cochise."

Unfortunately.

"You take chest," Hop Sing said. "If Little Joe fall, he need medicine."

"I'll fill my saddlebag from it. That way we'll both have what we need – just in case."

Ben looked grim. If Joe _had_ fallen into the ravine, it was a long way down. Without warning a vision of his youngest son lying at the bottom injured, alone – maybe dying – flashed before his eyes and he swayed.

A familiar hand steadied him. "Little Joe be okay. He smart boy. Take care of self."

Ben slowly nodded. He had taught all of his boys survival skills, but sometimes it wasn't enough.

It hadn't been enough last October.

"I go put supplies in saddlebags then. Medicine _and_ food for you and Little Joe."

"Thank you, Hop Sing. I want to start out before the light is gone." He placed a hand on his friend's arm. "You need to do the same."

The man from China nodded his agreement and headed for the wagon.

Ben looked down into the ravine again and then raised his eyes to the road. They were a mile or so out from the scene of last year's accident, but he could see it in his mind's eye. God could not be so cruel as to take both of his boys in nearly the same way, at almost the same place.

Not the God he knew.

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Rick sat at the table with his ma's Bible in his hands. Joe was asleep again. His fever was back and it was climbing. He knew something was wrong. There had to be an infection somewhere, but he didn't know what to do about it. He'd tried to peek under the bandage on Joe's leg, but it had caused the wounded man so much pain he'd stopped.

He was scared.

Since Joe had finished the Twenty-third Psalm when he was reading it, he figured he was a Christian too. Of course, even if he wasn't, it wouldn't hurt to pray for him. He'd done that and then read a little more. He liked the Psalms the best. Ma said they were 'real'. She told him whenever he thought he couldn't question God or felt guilty 'cause he was angry with Him, he should go to the Psalms. 'Course she told him too that if he got too big for his britches, he needed to read the last two chapters of Job where God asked Job where _he_ was when He hung the stars.

As he sat there thinkin' about his ma and Joe's brother who'd died and wondering why, Rick's eyes went to the unopened letters tucked in the back of the book. He knew what they were, even though he didn't let on to Joe. Ma told him. She'd told him she left them in case she never came back. Of course, Ma knew he couldn't read them himself, but she figured he could find someone who would.

 _Like_ Joe.

Still, if he let Joe read those letters, then he had to accept she wasn't never comin' back and he wasn't quite ready to do that. Even though he'd admitted to the older man that she was gone, well, readin' them letters would be like closin' the lid on her coffin.

He sure wished she'd _had_ a coffin and he had a grave.

With a sigh Rick rose to his feet, leaving both the book and the mystery of the letters behind. He glanced at Joe, who was mutterin' and movin' around on the bed, and then picked up the bucket and headed outside. Night was comin' fast and the air was gettin' cold. The water would be the same. He needed it to cool Joe down.

He only hoped it would be enough.

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Ben headed down into the ravine as dusk overtook the October landscape. The setting sun swept it, enriching the orange, red, and yellow hues until it seemed the woods were on fire. As he and Buck reached the bottom, the rancher became all too aware of a familiar odor.

The odor of death.

As Ben moved along the bottom of the ridge, he disturbed a flock of crows from their feasting. In the encroaching darkness he hadn't seen them until they took flight like something out of an All Hallows Eve fright. With fear and trepidation he approached the partially desiccated corpse of a large dark horse. Terror made his heart pound so hard he feared it would leap out of his chest as he dismounted and rounded the dead animal to see if anything – or _anyone_ – was trapped beneath.

God was merciful. There was nothing.

Nothing, that was, except his son's tan hat and Joe's tack still mounted on the unfamiliar horse; the saddlebags distinctively marked with the letters 'JFC'. As he circled out from the dead animal, looking for more evidence, he came across Joe's pistol. The chamber was empty and there were spent shell casings on the ground. In the dim light, Ben sensed more than saw the blood on the gun's pearl handle. Fortunately, he could also see the tracks of a horse and a travois.

Someone had come across his son. Thank God! Joe wasn't alone.

As Ben stood there, staring at the tracks, the rancher came to a decision. The autumn moon was large and low on the horizon. With any luck it would serve to light his way once it ascended. He knew the wise thing to do would be to camp for the night and follow the tracks in the morning, but wisdom had nothing to do with how he felt. His son was hurt. He had no idea how bad.

He needed to be with him.

Returning to Buck, Ben took his faithful friend's reins in hand. It would take longer to walk but, this way, he was certain not to miss the trail. In the end, luck and God were with him. He hadn't gone a quarter of a mile when he rounded a brace of trees and saw smoke rising into the air. With hope and thanksgiving swelling in his breast, the older man hastened his steps.

"I'm coming, Joe. Pa's coming," he breathed. "Hold on."

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Rick was dead tired, but there was no way he could sleep. Joe's fever was sky high and the cold blankets and cloths he'd wrapped him in weren't doin' much to keep it at bay. As he held the struggling man down, the boy glanced at Joe's left leg where it had pulled free of the cover. That leg _had_ to be the source of the infection. He knew he should unwind the linen strips, remove the splints, and clean the wound out again. The trouble was, he didn't really have anything to use. What alcohol he'd had was long gone. There was dead tissue as well that needed to be cut away but that would take a doctor and, even if there _had_ been a doctor closer than twenty miles away, he couldn't leave Joe.

He was gonna watch him die.

Tears broke free to course down his cheeks. He hadn't known Joe more than a few days, but already he felt the older man was like kin. He'd been alone for so long. Having someone to talk to – someone to _care_ for – was somethin' he'd prayed for but never expected to have again. He'd figured he would live in this holler and die in this holler all alone.

When Joe grew quiet, Rick released him. Catching hold of the cloth that had fallen from the wounded man's forehead, he reached down to soak it in the water he'd gathered from the rain barrel. It was warm. The boy pivoted to look at the hearth. He'd stoked up the fire good because Joe was shiverin'. Glancing at the sick man again, he weighed the danger of leaving him alone against his need for cold water. He'd had a high fever once, when he had the measles. Ma told him he'd climbed right out of the bed and headed for the cabin door, thinkin' he was runnin' from a grizzly that had hold of him.

With Joe's injuries...

Exhausted with worry and too little sleep, Rick caught the handle of the bucket in his fingers and headed for the door. He picked up a lantern on the way and lit it, since it was dark outside. Once on the stoop, he stopped and turned back to look into the house, to make sure Joe was still sleeping. That's when he heard a noise. The jingling of a harness. A horse snorting.

A man calling out, 'Ho! You in the house!'

Rick froze. No one came to the holler. _No_ _one._ Now two men had in less than two days. Fear gripped him. What if this man was responsible for Joe's accident somehow and had come lookin' for him? Joe hadn't said much except his horse took him over the edge of the ravine.

Backing up toward the house, Rick reached inside the door and grabbed the loaded rifle he kept there.

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Ben approached the cabin, excited and thrilled to see that the structure was in fairly good shape and the birds and beasts that bleated and squawked to warn of his coming were well fed and feisty. All of that meant this was an active homestead and not a ramshackle place where some vagabond or outlaw lived who might take advantage of his injured son. There was a figure on the porch. As he approached, the man stiffened in surprise and backed toward the door, stepping into the light.

The rancher halted and drew in a sudden, startled breath as he was propelled back in time.

It could have been Hoss.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

oooooooooo

As he approached, Ben raised his arms and held his hands out in the universal gesture of friendship. He did it as well as to show that he held no weapon. The rancher halted as the man on the porch raised the rifle and pointed it at him.

"Who are you and what do you want?" he demanded.

The crack in the homesteader's voice made the rancher realize that, most likely, it was _not_ a full grown man he was dealing with.

"I mean you no harm," he said. "My name is Ben Cartwright. I'm looking for my son."

The rifle dipped at his name, but the young man still sighted along it. "How do I know you're tellin' me the truth?"

Ben thought furiously. If this young man had rescued Joe, then he'd probably talked to him. In fact, he _prayed_ he'd talked to him.

"My son came to this area to visit the older woman who lives by the lake. Maybe you know her? Carrie Pickett?" The homesteader nodded, but said nothing. "His name is Joseph. He's not a big man. Curly brown hair. Green eyes. Most likely wearing a green jacket. Have you seen him?"

He got a question _for_ a question. "How'd you find me?"

The rancher considered his answer and decided to be completely honest. "I followed the tracks of the travois. Son, I _know_ Joe's here. Please, let me see him."

A noise caused the young man to turn and look into the house. It sounded like the cry of someone in pain. He turned back quickly and when he saw that he hadn't moved, seemed to grow more at ease.

"What's your place called?" he asked.

"The Ponderosa." Ben thought a moment. "If you've talked to Joe, you probably know he has a brother Adam and that his other brother, Hoss...died a year ago in a mudslide close to here."

The homesteader winced at the sound of another cry. He hesitated a moment and then dropped the rifle.

"Joe's real sick, Mister Cartwright. God must have sent you."

Ben nodded as fear for his son sickened him. "What's your name, son?"

"Rick. Rick Ferrell."

He took a step forward. "Rick. Can I come inside?"

The young man looked back into the cabin as another cry went up.

"You better hurry."

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Ben didn't know what he expected, but it wasn't what he found.

The cabin itself was a simple structure with two rooms. The first was a large space that served as kitchen, dining room, and great room. The second, smaller room, was probably a bedroom. The door was closed. From the look of the bedding on the floor near the table, Rick had abandoned it to be near his ailing son. There were unexpected hints here and there of a woman's touch – antimacassars on the back of an old settee, lace curtains, figurines on a what-not shelf and the like. It was definitely _not_ the house of a single man in his late teens or early twenties as Rick appeared to be.

He saw Joe the moment he stepped in. His son was lying on a low bed pressed up against the back wall of the cabin. A few long strides took him to his side. Once there, he sat on the bed and reached out to touch the boy's forehead.

He nearly pulled his hand away.

Pivoting, he demanded sharply, "How long has his fever been this high?"

"A couple of hours," Rick answered from the doorway where he was standing. "He got better and then he got worse. I think somethin's infected." The young man swallowed hard. "I did my best, Mister Cartwright, to clean them wounds out, but he was awful dirty when I found him."

"Joe fell into the river at the bottom of the ravine. I'm sure that didn't help," he replied as he pulled the coverlet back and began to untie the strips that held the splints on Joe's leg. His son stirred and muttered as he did, but didn't wake up.

"Do you know what to do?"

Ben started. The voice was so young, so...terrified ...he was forced to reassess the age of Joe's rescuer again. His own son had been a giant at the age of twelve.

Rick might not be much older.

"I've raised three boys. I have a pretty good idea," he said as he continued to work on the soiled strips of linen, taking them off and tossing them to the floor. "Rick, if you will, go out to my horse and get my saddlebags. There's food and medicine in them."

"Yes, sir," he answered.

"My horse is named Buck. Talk to him. He'll let you come near."

Some sort of reply came back his way as the boy headed out the door. Dismissing his need to know what it had been, the rancher turned back to his son. Reaching out he cupped Joe's chin in his hand and said, "Joseph. Can you hear me? It's Pa. Your pa's here, boy."

Joe seemed to hear him. He shifted and moaned. For a moment he grew quiet and then he began to thrash.

"No..." he wailed. "No! ...can't... No! Hoss! _No!"_

Good Lord. He was reliving his brother's death.

He pinched his son's chin. "Joe, listen to me. Listen! You're hurt. You have a fever. You're not in the mudslide!"

His son's eyes flashed open. Joe looked at him but he wasn't sure he saw him. His youngest drew in a shuddering breath as tears flooded his eyes. "No, Hoss. No," he repeated, and then Joe said something that made no sense.

"Lily."

A gasp made him turn. Rick was standing in the doorway, saddlebags in hand.

He looked like he'd seen a ghost.

With a glance at Joe, who seemed to have fallen back into the sleep of the sick, Ben rose and went over to the young man.

The boy.

Looking directly at him now, he recognized the signs of puberty. His middle son had looked much the same around the age of twelve – and been just as tall.

"Is something wrong, Rick?" he asked.

"Joe ain't said that before," the boy replied, his voice a bare whisper.

"What...? Oh, 'Lily'? Does that mean something to you?"

Rick nodded as he held out the saddlebags.

"It's my ma's name."

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The night was a battleground.

Once he had the bandages removed, Ben found the source of the infection. Joe's bone had splintered and a part of it worked its way through the skin. Rick had cleaned the wound, but something had been left behind. In spite of the discovery of what it was – and subsequent treatment – Joe's fever raged and he'd feared for his life. Now, as he sat by his son's side exhausted but grateful to see the dawn breaking through the window, the older man reflected on how precarious life was. Joe was about as hale and hearty as they came, toughened by years of exposure to the elements and the life of a cowboy with all of its inherent dangers.

And all it took was a bit of a decomposed leaf to threaten his life.

Glancing at Rick where he lay sleeping, he smiled. The boy had ably assisted him throughout the night, following his orders quickly and efficiently and without protest. It was plain to see that he was greatly relieved to have someone else in charge. Turning back to Joe, the rancher placed a hand on his son's arm. It was just as plain to see that in the short time Joe had been in the boy's company, Rick had become attached to him. A smile touched his lips. Of course, with Joe, it didn't take much. Most anyone who knew him liked him – or loved him. Leaning forward he placed his hand on his son's face and was delighted to find that the fever had abated a bit. Rick had helped him to prepare one of Hop Sing's herbal plasters and it seemed to be doing the trick. Still, he was worried. The leg had to be set and soon. Rick had splinted it to keep the broken bone immobile, but the boy had not moved the bones back into place. He was concerned Joe would have a limp, but he couldn't fault the boy.

For a lad his age he had done far more than could have been expected.

Tomorrow, he told himself. Tomorrow, if Joe's fever was down, when Hop Sing arrived he would set his son's leg. Ben looked at Joe, who was sleeping deeply. He had judiciously added a few drops of laudanum to a glass of water and given it to him to help him sleep without dreams.

The rest he had kept, knowing they would have need of it.

Ben rose and stretched. As he left his son's bedside and walked toward the door, he passed Rick who was asleep on his makeshift bed, dead to the world. Stopping, he paused to study him for a moment and was struck again by the resemblance to Hoss. The boy's coloring was lighter. His hair was fairly thick and a pale shade of blond with red highlights. He was more slender than Hoss as well, though just as tall and fairly broad. If he was only twelve or thirteen, most likely in time he would fill out and be a powerful man to take notice of. He thought about how tender the boy had been when he helped with Joe, holding his son's head, offering him water; speaking kind and healing words to him.

Ben pursed his lips and shook his head.

How he wished he could go back to the time when all his sons were home with him. When they were children who needed guidance and advice like this one.

When Pa was their world.

As he turned to exit, Ben noted a Bible laying open on the settee by the boy. Usually when he traveled he brought his own with him, but worry had made him forget. He glanced at Rick and decided the boy probably wouldn't mind if he borrowed it. More than likely, he wouldn't even know. Leaning over, the rancher picked up the well-worn tome. Slowly, his fingers caressed the soft leather. With an eye to the growing light Ben opened the door, walked outside, and drew in a breath of the crisp autumn air. The light was breaking through the trees, striping the land with gold. Birds wheeled in the sky. God's world _was_ truly wonderful.

He was humbled by its beauty and more than thankful that his son had made it through the night.

The evening before as he entered the cabin he'd noted a rocking chair beside the door, just under a window. Feeling every one of his sixty-plus years, Ben went to it and sat down. For a moment he remained still with his hand on the Bible, watching the growing light, and then he opened it, intending to go to the Psalms to read one of praise.

As he did, two letters fluttered to the ground.

Slightly perplexed, he bent and retrieved them. He'd started to put them back in the book when the name and address on one of them brought him up short.

 _Mister Eric Cartwright. The Ponderosa. Nevada._

Quickly, he looked at the other one. It was addressed to Broderick Ferrell.

That one said, ' _To be opened upon my death._ '

The letters were obviously old. The wax on them was cracked and the paper slightly faded on one end from being exposed to the light. Ben sat there for some time with the pair of them in his hand, uncertain of what he should do. He'd just decided to wake the young man up and ask him about them when the sound of a wagon approaching brought him to his feet.

Hop Sing had arrived.

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He'd never seen anything like it.

Mister Cartwright might have been the owner of the Ponderosa, the biggest spread in all of Nevada, but he might as well have been a kid just like him, the way Hop Sing took over. The little Chinese man came into the cabin, took one look at Joe, and started to issue orders. Soon enough he had both him and the rancher hopping; boilin' water, crushin' spices, and makin' them plasters he put on Joe's leg. The last one smelled like the dickens! When they caught a break Mister Cartwright explained that he'd hired Hop Sing when Joe was little, before his ma died. The man from China had had a big part in raisin' Joe and loved him like his own. He knew it was true. He'd stood by Joe's bed when Hop Sing first sat down. Just like his ma would have, the little man stroked Joe's hair back from his forehead. As he did, he said soft words in that funny language of his. Joe smiled and, even though he wasn't really awake, answered back the same way.

Rick turned toward the door, wonderin' what Mister Cartwright was up to. Since Hop Sing's arrival, Joe's pa had spent a lot of time outdoors, doing things he'd had to neglect 'cause of takin' care of Joe, like cleanin' out the stalls and milkin' their goat. He thought it was awful funny that a man who owned a thousand acres of land would want to do that.

Mister Cartwright told him he needed time to think and he thought better when his hands were busy.

Joe's pa had been awful quiet since Hop Sing came. All he could figure was that he was afraid Joe would die, but then that didn't make sense, cause Joe was gettin' better. He'd stayed awake long enough today to ask for his pa and the two of them had talked for a bit before Joe went back to sleep. Mister Cartwright had leaned in and kissed him on the forehead before he left, like he was a little kid, and Joe hadn't complained.

He sure wished he'd had a pa.

He sure wished he _still_ had his ma.

Glancing down, Rick noticed his ma's Bible laying on the table. It was in a different spot from where he'd left it the night before. He'd heard Joe's father prayin' in the middle of the night, so he knew he was a believer. He figured maybe Mister Cartwright had been reading it, which was okay. He knew it'd been read 'cause the letters were in a different place. They probably fell out when the older man opened it. Driven by something he didn't quite understand, Rick pulled the letters out of the back of the book and stared at them, wondering what was written on them and who they were for. He'd seen his ma write his name once or twice and he thought one of them was addressed to him.

He had no idea who the other one was for.

"Boy look tired. Why he not sleep?" a soft voice asked.

Mister Cartwright had asked him point blank and he'd had to admit he wasn't as old as he looked. Usually when someone called him 'boy' it made him kind of mad, but he'd heard Hop Sing call Joe 'boy' too.

That had made him smile.

His eyes went to the bed where his friend lay. "Is Joe gonna be okay?"

Hop Sing's black eyes clouded with concern. "Mistah Joe very sick boy." The Chinese man touched his head and then his heart. "Here, and here."

Rick nodded. "He blames himself for his brother's death, don't he? Hoss, I mean."

"Little Joe talk in sleep?"

"Yeah. Lots."

Hop Sing was silent for a few seconds, then he said, "Mister Hoss good man. Love Little Joe him very much. Would give life for brother."

He'd pieced together a few things from Joe's rantings. There had been a flash flood. The road had washed out, takin' Joe with it and some woman whose wagon had been stuck. Hoss had saved Joe but gone back in and died tryin' to save her.

"There was a woman too," he said.

Hop Sing nodded. "Lily."

Rick stiffened. "Lily?"

"Little Joe say name over and over. Hoss. Lily. Lily. Hoss."

He was gonna be sick.

Rising to his feet, Rick turned and ran outside. Hop Sing came running after him. He stopped in the door and called out to him, askin' what was wrong. He didn't know why he hadn't put two and two together before. Now that he had, how could he tell him?

How _could_ he tell Joe?

Lily.

That was his ma.

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Ben heard a commotion and stopped what he was doing. After finding the letter addressed to Hoss it had been hard to remain in the house. Every instinct that was in him told him to open it and read it, but every rule he had ever known – and taught his boys – told him it was none of his business. As a young man he had found work to be therapeutic. Digging in the earth, cutting down timber, riding herd – even busting a bronco or two – had taken his mind off of what troubled him.

It wasn't working this time.

Leaning the rake against the stall wall, the rancher walked to the barn door, opened it, and looked out. Hop Sing was standing on the porch, looking both confused and concerned. Wiping his hands on his trousers, he crossed the yard to the porch.

"Hop Sing?" he asked.

"Boy run off. Go into woods."

Ben looked but could see nothing. Turning back he asked, "How's Joe?"

"Little Joe better." Hop Sing paused. "Not best."

"But you think he'll recover?"

"Boy need doctor for leg."

He winced. "We need to set that leg. Is he strong enough, do you think?"

"Feed broth, then see. "

"Do you need me?" Ben asked, looking again toward the woods.

"Hop Sing okay all by self. Cook broth. Give to boy. He stronger, set leg when you come back." The Chinese man frowned. "Tall boy like Mister Hoss. Hide feelings. Feelings deep."

Perceptive as always, that was Hop Sing.

"I'll see if I can find him."

The man from China turned and entered the cabin as he walked away. The light was rising, painting the trees a fiery orange. As Ben walked the autumn leaves fell, fulfilling the cycle of life – dying so new things could be born. He'd gone about a quarter of a mile when he came to an area with a ramshackle fence. It was covered in Bittersweet. Rick was leaning against it, his shoulders rising and falling with silent tears.

Walking over to the boy, he placed a hand on his shoulder. "Son? Would you like to talk?"

Rick sniffed. He struck tears from his face with his sleeve and then said, without turning. "I wish you was my pa, Mister Cartwright. I hope he was like you."

"Ben," he said.

The boy looked at him with those keen light blue eyes of his. "Sir?"

"Call me Ben. You saved my boy's life. I consider you a friend."

"Ben," he said as if trying it out. "Okay."

The rancher hesitated. "You seem upset. Can I help?"

Rick was fingering one of the burnt orange berries on the vine that clung to the fence. "My ma loved this stuff. She used to cut and bring it into the house this time of year."

"Bittersweet?"

"Yeah. She said it was like life. Sweet and sour at the same time."

"Your mother sounds like a very wise woman."

Rick was silent a moment. "She's dead, you know. She'd died a year ago." The boy glanced at him and then his head went down. "I think she killed your son."

To say he was taken aback would have been an understatement.

"What?"

"Hoss. I think Ma was... I think Hoss died tryin' to save her. Hop Sing said the woman's name was Lily." He blinked back tears. "Ma's name was Lily and I never saw her again after that mudslide last year."

"Are you sure?"

"No, but Joe said things. He was tryin' to warn her. It seemed she didn't hear him." Rick frowned. "Ma was deaf."

Ben leaned against the fence, his middle son's final words pounding through his brain.

' _I got me a hankerin' to see them Piney Woods too. You know, Pa, a long time ago... Well, I think I left somethin' there. Somethin', I should of gone back for.'_

Was that – _could_ that something have been a son?


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

oooooooooo

"Little Joe wake up. Boy need to eat."

Joe shifted, winced, and dared to shake his head. "Not hungry."

"Boy eat anyhow."

Joe opened one eye and looked. Yep, it was Hop Sing.

"When did you get here?" he asked.

"Boy not remember. Hop Sing take care of Little Joe _all_ night long."

He sniffed. Wrinkling his nose, he said, "I could of told by the smell. What'd you put on my leg?"

"Chinese secret."

He was more than used to Hop Sing's 'secret' potions. There wasn't one of them that didn't set your hair on end and smell like wet dog.

A hand on his forehead stopped his protest. "Boy not complain. Boy better. Fever down."

Joe sighed. "Hop Sing, it's been a long time since I've been a boy."

The Chinese man smiled. "Always boy to Hop Sing. Always _Little_ Joe."

He shifted again and was grateful to do it. It hurt, but it didn't feel like his leg wasn't part of him anymore. "Can you help me sit up?" he asked.

"If boy eat soup."

Joe rolled his eyes. "Okay, I'll eat your soup," he groused. "Just help me up." Once he was propped against the pillows, he asked, "Where's Pa?"

"He look for great big boy," the Chinese man said as he reached for the tray next to him.

"Rick? Where'd he go?"

"Hop Sing tell big boy what Little Joe say when fever high. He hear and run."

The sick man resisted a sigh. Hop Sing was tucking a napkin under his chin. "What'd I say?" he asked as the Chinese man settled the tray on his lap.

"Lily."

Joe blinked. "Lily? Just that?" He thought a moment. "Lily. I think that was the name of the woman Hoss tried to save."

Hop Sing nodded. "Lily boy's mother."

"What?" He jerked so hard he spilled some of the soup on the tray. "Are you sure? How do you know?"

"Hop Sing see it in boy's eyes," the man from China said softly.

Joe thought about it, and the more he thought about it, the more sense it made. They were near where the landslide happened. Rick said his ma had gone to town and not come back. He'd told him she was hard of hearing and the woman he'd shouted at had been deaf. There was another thing he remembered. It was why he kept saying her name. Just before Hoss waded back in, his brother had called out a name.

'Lily'.

Like he knew her.

Hop Sing held a spoonful of broth out. He pushed it aside.

No. It couldn't be.

Not Hoss.

Maybe _him_ , but not Hoss.

Joe looked at the door. He could see Rick standing there that first night and remembered how much he had reminded him of his brother.

"You don't think," Joe said, his voice hushed with awe.

Hop Sing nodded as he offered the spoonful of broth again.

"Hop Sing not think. He _know_."

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Ben's head was reeling. None of it made any sense.

If Hoss had...fathered a child...nothing in the world would have stopped his son from claiming the boy, no matter what the societal consequences. And yet, looking at Rick now, it was impossible not to see the resemblance. Oh, he'd noted it before, but in passing.

Now, there was no question.

Clearing his throat, he asked Rick, who was leaning against the fence, looking off into the distance, "Do you know anything about your father?"

The boy glanced at him as if wondering why he cared. Then he shrugged. "Ma told me he was a good man, but he couldn't stay. Said he had 'other obligations'." Rick paused. "I think she was lyin'."

"Why is that?"

He laughed. "Ma was...mighty proud. She didn't take nothin' from no one. Said she'd had to fight all her life to have somethin' to call her own and she wasn't about to take charity." The boy turned around so he was facing him. "She wasn't a drinker, but every once in a while Ma'd break out the medicine bottle and take a shot or two. She told me she'd sent him away."

"Sent him away?" he echoed. "Why?"

"Ma didn't say, but I think him and her – Pa and my ma – gettin' together was 'cause they was both lonely. Not 'cause they loved each other."

He was trying hard to piece it together. It still didn't sound like his son, and yet he found it hard – especially in light of that letter – to believe Rick was not talking about Hoss. Ben thought about it. Rick was somewhere in his early teens. That placed his birth about the end of the fifties, or maybe the early sixties. When had Hoss been so distraught that this might have happened?

Then he had it. Emily Pennington. The young woman had left because she knew she was dying and broken his son's heart. After that, Hoss had gone away for a time. He'd said he needed time to himself. Could he have come across Lily and the pair of them – two lonely souls – sought a moment of consolation in each other's arms?

"You okay Mister...Ben?" Rick asked.

The rancher placed a hand on the boy's shoulder. For a moment, he was at a loss for words. When he found his voice, he said, "Son, those letters you have in your mother's Bible. Do you know who they are for?"

"I already told Joe. I can't read that fancy writing."

"Why haven't you found someone to read them to you?"

The boy shrugged. "I'm...afraid, I guess."

"Of what you'll learn?"

He nodded. "That and, well, readin' them... I guess, it's like I'm givin' up on Ma. Like I'm admittin' she ain't ever comin' home."

"Do you think she is?"

Rick pale blue eyes, so like his late son's, met his.

"No."

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

"Go ahead and do it, Pa," Joe said between gritted teeth.

His father had his hands on his leg. Rick's were on his shoulders.

"It's going to hurt, son. I'm sorry," Pa said.

He knew it had been too long. He wasn't sure how long it _had_ been, but he knew at least two days had passed since Rick found him. Without the bone being set, the odds were he'd have a limp at best and be a cripple at worst. He understood why Pa waited. It only made sense to be sure he wasn't gonna die before bothering to set his leg. Hop Sing was standin' at the bottom of the bed, eying all three of them. He knew why. He'd seen Pa, sneakin' looks at Rick just like him.

If _only_ they knew for sure. If some _part_ of his brother had been left behind – if Hoss _had_ gone back into that raging torrent of mud and water to save a woman he'd loved...

Well, it didn't make it any easier, but it did make sense.

Joe caught his father watching him. He nodded and gave him a little smile. They both knew the bones might have begun to knit and it was gonna hurt like Hell to move them.

Pa glanced up at Rick and nodded. Joe felt the boy's grip tighten. He was waiting for pa to say 'when' when 'when' came without warning. He thought he'd been ready.

He was wrong.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

By the time Joe regained consciousness, the light was gone. Someone had stoked the fire in the hearth and the cabin smelled of apples and cinnamon. It never ceased to amaze him what Hop Sing packed in that medicine chest of his. He felt dizzy and light-headed, but if he had to tell the truth, his leg felt better. The searing pain that had filled his mind and sapped his strength for the last few days was – well – not gone, but a distant memory of what it had been.

When he came to himself enough to realize what was goin' on around him, Joe saw that his Pa was sitting at his bedside. He had a letter in his hand.

Joe licked his lips. "Hey, Pa."

The older man started and reached out to touch his arm. "Joe. How are you, son?"

"Better."

Pa's hand came down on his forehead. Then he smiled. "I believe you are. The fever is almost gone."

"Sorry," he said.

"What do you have to be sorry for?" Pa asked, confused.

"I had to come up here and then I went and, well, you know." He scowled. "It couldn't have been easy realizin' I went over the edge so near..."

Pa closed his eyes and then opened them with a sigh. "No. It wasn't. But you're here now and alive. That's all that matters."

He turned his head and looked around the cabin. "Where's Rick?"

"Outside with Hop Sing." His father cleared his throat. "I asked them to give us a minute."

Joe lifted his brows in a question, but then found the answer on his own. "The letter?" he asked.

Pa nodded. "Did you know one of them was addressed to your brother?"

He shook his head. "I asked Rick about them, but I never saw them. You mean Hoss?"

His father laughed. "Well, it's certainly not addressed to Adam."

Joe laughed too but sobered quickly. "Have you read it?"

"No. I waited on you. I think this is something we have to do together, don't you?"

He shifted and instantly his father moved to help him to sit up. Joe was surprised as a sudden fear gripped him like a fist. He didn't know what he was afraid of.

The truth, maybe.

"So, you gonna open it?"

Pa's near-black eyes met his. He paused and then his fingers cracked the years' old seal. The older man opened the page and scanned it, and then began to read.

' _Eric, if you are reading this, I'm dead. I placed this letter along with one for Broderick in my Bible and told him not to open them unless something happened to me. I don't regret the choice I made. It was right for both me and you. There was no love between us, just a chance encounter between two people who were hurting and were seeking something they could never find this side of Heaven. There was a man I loved, just like you loved Emily. His family wanted nothing to do with the deaf girl. They sent him away. Emily had no choice. She died and broke your heart. I am grateful, that for a few days, I was able to mend it._

 _Dear friend, there is something else I did not tell you and I would not for all the world have told you if there was any other way. Shortly after I sent you away, I found I was with child. I named him after you. Broderick. Do you remember when I called you that? Broad Eric, my Viking knight. Though you didn't love me, and I sent you away and told you not to look back, you gave me a gift for which I am eternally grateful. From Heaven I am looking down on you and smiling. Rick is a good boy. He is yours now. Take care of him for he is your own._

 _Lily'_

Tears were streaming down his cheeks. Joe thought of Emily Pennington and the deep love his brother had for the dying girl. Hoss had been devastated when he'd found out she couldn't live. He remembered he'd wanted to go after him, but his father had held him back, saying Hoss needed time.

Time in which he found Lily.

Time enough to have a son.

Joe blinked back tears. He looked at his father. Pa was crying too.

"Pa?" he asked.

His father stared at him. "I have a grandson."

Pa's words filled him with a sense of wonder. And he had a nephew! Hoss wasn't gone – not completely.

God had made sure a bit of him remained.

"When are you going to tell him?" he asked.

The older man drew in a breath, slapped his thighs and rose.

"There's no time like now."

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Rick heard his name being shouted. He paused in feeding Dumpy and turned toward the door. It sounded like somethin' was wrong. Instantly, he thought of Joe and feared the injured man had taken a turn for the worse. Quick as he could, the boy finished dumping the oats into the bucket and then, with a quick, 'I'll be back soon as I can', headed for the cabin.

Ben was standing on the porch waitin' for him. As he approached, Rick looked beyond him. At the sight of Joe, relief washed over him. The sick man was sitting up in the bed, looking his way.

The sick man's pa waited a moment and then said, softly, "I'm sorry, son. I didn't mean to frighten you. Joe is fine."

There was somethin' funny in Ben's voice. As he cleared his throat, the older man raised a hand to strike away a tear that was trailin' down his cheek.

Rick wondered if he'd done somethin' wrong. Then he saw the letters in the older man's hand. One open. One not.

Ben noticed him looking. He drew in a breath and let it out _very_ slowly. "You said Joe told you about his brother," he began, his voice rough, "about Hoss and how he died?"

"Yes, sir." Rick paused and then added, "Joe's pretty torn up about it."

"He's blamed himself. Joe was caught in that flash flood, in the slide of mud and water that came down unexpectedly and washed out the road. His brother saved him and then went back, apparently in an attempt to save your mother. Joe was hurt and he couldn't help. Hoss was too exhausted to make the attempt and Joe took that on himself – the fact that Hoss had to go in and he couldn't." The older man paused. "I don't think Joseph understood until now why his brother did."

Ben was lookin' at him _awful_ funny.

"And why was that?" he asked.

Joe's pa stepped off the porch and came to stand in front of him. He held out the opened letter. "This is addressed to Hoss," he said and waited.

Rick frowned. Now why would his ma have written a letter to Joe's brother? Joe said they didn't know who she was when they found her stranded with the wagon.

"I don't understand," he said at last.

"Come inside, Rick. I think you will once you hear what this letter has to say."

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Joe looked up at his pa and nodded. The older man was standing with his hand on Rick's shoulder. Pa had read the letter Lily wrote to Hoss and since he'd finished, the boy hadn't said a word. Rick was sitting with his head down, staring at the still unopened letter that was addressed to him.

"I'll leave you two alone," Pa said.

They'd decided before Rick came in that once they'd read Lily's letter, Pa would leave for a time. The boy had to be overwhelmed and Pa thought that maybe, since they'd become friends, it would be better for him to read the still unopened letter to Rick. Joe wasn't sure he could. He felt light-headed – giddy even – but he wasn't sure if that was because he'd just come out of a killing fever, or because he was suddenly the uncle of a six foot tall teenage boy.

God did move in mysterious ways.

After a moment, he dared to ask a question. "You okay, Rick? I mean, I know it's a lot to take in."

For a moment, the boy didn't move. Then Rick raised those pale eyes of his and met his stare. "You mean...I'm really..." He faltered and tried again. "Your brother Hoss is my _pa?_ Are you sure?"

Joe snorted. Sure he was sure. Even if there hadn't been a letter, they probably would have figured it out on their own soon enough. "I'm sure," he said with a nod. "You look just like the big galoot, right down to that gap in your teeth." It was smaller than Hoss' had been, but it was there.

Rick was turning the letter over in his hands. "Ma was so small. I always wondered..."

"How you got to be so big?" Joe shook his head. "Just like me. Lookin' at Hoss, I wondered how I got to be so small!"

The boy winced. "So, that means...I mean, you're...my _Uncle_ Joe?"

Uncle Joe. Imagine that.

"Yep." Joe paused. "Are you happy about that?"

Rick was honest. "I don't know. It's so...sudden like. To have no one and then..." His eyes suddenly lit with surprise. "That means your pa is my..."

"Grandpa. Yep."

And Pa was tickled pink.

For some reason, Rick wasn't.

"What's botherin' you?" Joe asked.

The boy blinked. "Nothin' really. I mean...what do I do now?"

"Come home with us." At Rick's look, he added, "I asked you to already, remember. It ain't just 'cause of Hoss." Joe sobered. "You saved my life. You're a good kid. You shouldn't be livin' out here all alone. You need your...family."

Rick sucked in air. "Family. I ain't never had a family. Just ma."

"Well now you got me and Pa, and Jamie. Pa adopted him a year or so back. He's just about your age." Joe hesitated and then laughed. "And just about half your size."

The boy nodded absently. He was staring at the letter in his hands.

The injured man paused. Then he said, "Rick, I'm sorry about your ma. I'm sorry I...we couldn't save her. If I'd of known she couldn't hear. I mean, I know some sign language –"

Rick was shaking his head. "Ma wouldn't have let you know, even if you'd spoken to her. She was ornery as a mule and twice as stubborn. That's why she went off on her own and left me to mind the place. I told her I should have gone with her. I..." A little sob escaped him. "I might of been able to save her."

In his mind's eye Joe witnessed the accident again, as fresh and clear as if it was happening at that moment. He'd called out to Lily. She didn't hear him. He reached for her, but before he could say another word the water and mud erupted, driving him and her off the road and down the side of the hill. He heard Hoss shout. It had seemed like hours though – in truth – it was probably less than a minute before he felt his brother's strong hands close on his arm. There was a battle between Hoss and the mud and then, all at once – like a cork in a champagne bottle – he popped out and shot up so fast and hard he knocked his brother over. Hoss had been pantin' as he dragged him up the hill and propped him against a rock that was out of the devastated area. He remembered Hoss lookin' at the mudslide and then back to him.

'I gotta go, Joe,' he said.

He'd pleaded with him not too. He knew – somehow he _knew_ that if his brother stepped back into that maelstrom of mud and debris he wasn't ever gonna come out.

'I gotta go, Joe. I gotta save Lily."

And then, Hoss was gone.

He'd been hurt worse than he realized. When Hoss vanished, he pulled himself to his feet and started for the edge, determined to follow. He didn't make it. He remembered looking down and seeing his brother's white hat floating on the mud.

And then everything had gone dark.

It wasn't until the next day that someone came along and stumbled on him layin' at the side of the road, half out of his mind with fever and grief. They'd gone through his pockets once they got him to the settlement and to a doctor and managed to find a bill of sale that was still partially legible. Pa'd been sent for.

He didn't want to see him.

He couldn't.

He _couldn't_ tell him Hoss was dead.

And so _he_ had lingered near death for days before God in His mercy made the decision for him – that he would live in spite of himself.

"Joe?"

"Don't," he said.

"Don't?"

"Don't take it on yourself, Rick. Don't...dishonor your ma's memory by ruining your future with guilt. She'd want you to go on, to remember her with a smile." He closed his eyes for a second, knowing the words were for him as well as Hoss' boy. "Lily would want you to live."

For a moment Rick didn't say anything. Then his lips twitched and turned up with a shy little grin that was so like his dead brother's it took his breath away.

"You gonna take your own advice?" he asked.

Joe hesitated and then placed his hand over the boy's. "You and me. We'll do it together. Okay?"

Rick shifted his grip so he could grasp his fingers. "Deal."

Joe nodded, indicating the letter. "You want me to read that to you?"

The boy looked at the envelope in his hand. Then he shook his head. "No," he said.

Joe's eyebrows popped. "No?"

Rick shook his head. "No, _Uncle_ Joe. I want you to teach _me_ how to read it."

The injured man smiled as he pumped the boy's hand. "So you're comin' home with us?"

Hoss' son smiled too.

"Yeah. I'm comin' home."


	7. Epilogue

Epilogue

Ben halted near the table by the hearth in the great room of the Ponderosa ranch house. With one ear tuned to the outside, he sat in his chair and placed the steaming cup of coffee he held on its surface beside the yellow and black checkerboard. Shortly after Rick had come to live with them it had been returned to its proper place. Now, as before, his evenings were spent watching two beloved sons take turns winning and losing the game. Rick had caught on quickly to his Uncle Joe's...rather unique...strategy and just as quickly put an end to it.

He'd never forget the look on Joe's face the first time the boy picked him up bodily and promptly put him down on the opposite side of the board!

Outside the leaves were once again turning to gold. The crops in the fields were ready and ripe to pick. Hoss' son had been with them for a full year now. In that time they had come to know him and to love him. Rick was much like his father and yet, was his own unique self. He loved animals just as Hoss had and had the same healing touch, but the boy loved books as well – nearly as much as his absent Uncle Adam. Joe had spent the winter teaching him how to read script as well as print, opening the last door to learning. He'd never forget the light that had come into the boy's pale blue eyes the day Joe had shown him his brother Adam's library and told him it now was his. It had brought both him and Joe great delight to give it to him.

All the more so as Adam would have been delighted too.

One day shortly after that, as he passed Adam's old room on his way downstairs, he found Rick sitting in his son's favorite chair by the window. The boy's chin was on his fist and he was gazing out, so he didn't notice he was there. Lily's second letter lay open on his lap. During the day neither he nor Joe had asked the boy what it contained. After all, his mother's words were for him alone. That night at supper Rick mentioned the fact that he had read the letter. He said that, in it, his mother had bid him 'goodbye' and then ordered him to send the other letter on to his pa. Later the boy added that Lily had closed the letter by saying she prayed to the good Lord above that he would at last have a family.

Her prayer had certainly been answered.

Ben smiled as he leaned forward and reached for his cup. He cradled it in his fingers a moment relishing the warmth, and then took another sip. The winter had passed quickly as the three of them came to know one another and then, when the spring thaw came, they'd mounted up and headed for town. It had been quite an occasion. Joe was mostly healed by then and intended to ride Cochise. Rick would have none of it. The boy was still protective of his new-found uncle and threatened Joe with bodily harm if he didn't travel with him in the wagon.

The grousing and sniping between the pair on the Virginia City road had been music to his ears!

Once they arrived in town, they'd visited a few close friends and introduced Rick. Roy Coffee and Doc Martin guessed the truth immediately and were overjoyed when they found out he had a grandson. For the boy's sake, they made no public announcement. Of course, they really had no need to explain it to anyone. One look at Rick was enough to establish his pedigree and, though society would have frowned on the circumstances of the boy's conception and birth, those who knew and loved Hoss were overjoyed to find that a bit of the gentle giant remained.

The older man's eyes went to the old tall case clock as he took another sip. He'd expected Joe and Rick back an hour before. Chiding himself for remaining an old mother hen, Ben leaned back and savored his coffee. Hop Sing had laced it with just a little brandy and it was doing its work to take the edge off of the chill night air. As he did, he considered God's providential hand. Two years ago, this day had been one of immense sorrow and unbearable loss. This year it was one of thanksgiving. Today marked one year since Rick had come to live with them and Joe's life had been spared. One year since they had been given a priceless gift that few received.

One year since the hole in their hearts had been, if not completely filled, then certainly mended.

As he finished his coffee, Ben heard the sound of horses' hooves pounding into the yard and then, laughter as the pair he had been waiting on dismounted. A moment later the front door flew open bringing with it an icy wind and two well-bundled men. Well, one man and one boy.

The boy, of course, was the only one on his feet.

"I'm tellin' you for the last time, you put me down!" Joe protested. His youngest son's booted feet were dangling a few feet off the floor.

Rick had his uncle slung over his shoulder like a sack of grain .

"What'll you give me if I do? Whatever it is, it better be good!" the boy declared. Rick winked at him before continuing. "How about that new saddle of yours?"

"I ain't givin' you my saddle just so I can put my feet on the floor!" Joe snarled. "For all I care you can hang onto me 'til the cows come home!"

"I don't know, Joe," Ben said as he placed his cup once more on the table. "Candy just took off on the drive with the men. You could be up there a long time."

Joe looked down at Rick's long, tall form. "If the 'sights' were better from up here, I might not mind."

Rick crossed the room, moving as if Joe were a light as a feather. As he approached the settee, he asked, "How about this, Uncle Joe? You do my chores for a week and I'll let you down."

"Nope," Joe said, settling in. "No more muckin' out stalls. I'm too old."

"Hmmm." The boy scratched his head. "I got it! You let me win at checkers."

"You always win at checkers," his son groused.

"Yeah, _now_ I do."

Rick was standing beside the settee. Ben covered his eyes with his hand. He could hear Marie groaning.

The boy shrugged. "Guess I just gotta give in then."

The settee groaned too as Joe hit it with a resounding 'thud'.

The scene that followed was all too familiar. He had witnessed it for decades on end. Joe rose up off of the sofa. Rick shrugged, made a face – wiggled his fingers in his ears – and then darted through the door with his uncle following after him, hooting and hollering loud enough to wake the dead.

Ben picked his empty cup up and followed them. As he paused by the front door, his eyes went to the familiar yellow and white ginger jar on the credenza. In it were a half-dozen brown branches covered with dried leaves and dotted with dark orange berries. Rick had brought a start of the plant along with him when he left his mother's house behind. It vined now all along the front fence, blooming purple in the spring; drying and dying to a burnt orange in the fall.

Lily had been right. Life was like that too – sorrow and joy intertwined.

Bittersweet.


End file.
